In the Elder Days
by ThereGoesMyLife
Summary: The last days are the hardest, but they should be better together. They're supposed to be better together. One-shot.


She stands there, gripping the back of the chair. One hand white from the lack of circulation; the other flexing and squeezing the wood as if working a stress ball. Maybe we should get her one. This only seems to be getting worse. Kat's eyes are clenched shut and her teeth are bared. I can only pray she pulls out of this fit before she begins grinding her teeth again. Those are always the worst days. I continue to watch her hands; those are the best symbols of how long this one will last. The fact that she's not completely frozen should be promising, but I gave up on the optimistic bullshit a long time ago.

Slowly, unsteadily, I watch her left hand relax, but randomly spaz as if letting go of the chair is causing her physical pain. And at this point, maybe it is. This "episode" lasted almost ten minutes and I don't want to imagine the pins and needles that she must be feeling as the blood reenters her fingers. I wait until the twitching stops before letting my eyes rise slowly to Kat's face. She's looking right at me. I take a step forward to approach her and feel as if I'm attempting to approach a wild dog. I maintain eye contact and see that she has exhausted herself this time. There is no room for pain in the lines of her face and expression in her eyes. All I can see is fatigue.

I reach out with my right arm and gently grasp her trembling forearm and turn her to face me completely. The top of her head reaches just below my chin and I tuck her face into that familiar junction as my right arm wraps around her lower back and my left covers her shoulder blades. Her hands settle on my middle back and grasp my shirt until I swear I hear the fabric tear. If we were still young and I still had my old strength I would have easily picked her up, wrapped her legs around my waist, and carried her to bed. But those days were long past. So we remain standing.

I can feel the heat and moisture of her tears on my neck and feel the small heaves of her sobs. She has always been a quiet mourner. And this is how it has been for the past 60 years. Every year getting progressively worse. Every year she has to relive it. Because every year she forgets a little more.

If burying a child is the worst pain a parent can feel, then I hope I will never experience that feeling. Because watching my wife mentally waste away before my very eyes and having no power to help or stop the torture in her day to day life, I have never experienced anything worse. The doctors call it an old mental disorder called Alzheimer's disease. I call it a side of effect of the torture she endured all those years ago. It continues to amaze me that we are even alive, but I know that joy will end soon because her time is coming to a close and that means I will be soon to follow. As I always have been. I've explained to the kids (though I suppose they are not really kids anymore) that they need to be ready for both of us to go any day now. They don't like when I talk like that but they understand. There is no escaping reality.

I feel the slowing and gentling of Katniss' breathing and I know this episode is coming to a close. I pull back slightly and see the little smile that slowly grows across her face. There's my girl.

"Peeta," she whispers as her eyes close and her head falls forward. I rest my lips on her forehead and breath in her familiar and comforting smell.

"They're really dead? All of them?"

"Yeah, sweetheart, they really are."

"Why would they leave me?"

"Because you are strong enough to live without them, but they weren't strong enough to live without those that went before them. They gave up their lives for you. For us. For the future the younger generations needed and deserved."

"But why them?" I know 40 years ago she would have been mentally cringing at her childish question, but these days, Katniss was like a child again. She had the same response to pain that would have been natural in any youth who had a real childhood. So I guess, in a way, this was her first and only chance to really ask these innocent questions. And to really mourn. The problem wasn't her pain. It was the repetition of it. At least once a week we had this same conversation. Because she just couldn't remember.

"I don't know, baby. No one deserved it. But we've got each other. We've got the kids." By the stiffening of her back I knew I had screwed up. You'd think after all these years I'd be able to watch my tongue.

"Kids? We have kids? Peeta! You know I didn't want to have kids! What will the Capitol do to them? What has the Capitol done to them? Where are they? Where are they? What's going on? Peeta—"

And just like that, she's gone.

I'm so sorry.

I love you.

Please forgive me.


End file.
